Babysitting Brooklyn
by Christina Conlon
Summary: David finds a metal device and accidentally uses it to turn Spot into a five-year-old boy.  Now it's up to the Manhattan newsies to babysit, find an antidote, fend off the agressive Queens, and keep the whole thing a secret from Brooklyn. Good luck, guys.


**Title: **A Speck of Spot

**Rating:** T (just to be safe)

**Genres:** Friendship/Sci-Fi (minimal)

**Warnings:** kid!Spot cuteness overload, maybe? :3

**Word Count:** 4,407, not including the Author's Notes.

**A/N:** Well, this is a little different from my other newsies stories, and it doesn't really connect with them, either. It just stands here, all on its own. But I hope you guys like it nonetheless!

**Chapter 1 – How This Whole Mess Began**

The entire situation was rather frightening to Jack Kelly.

It was frightening the way those ice-blue stared up at him, confused and wide and innocent. It was frightening the way those oh-so-familiar red suspenders hung limp and useless over undersized shoulders. It was frightening the way he had to look down – way, way down – to properly see the tiny figure before him.

But what frightening Jack the most, was the fact that the tiny figure before him, was Spot Conlon.

Jack tore his gaze away from the shocking sight and turned towards David, who was holding the object of offense and looking just as terrified as he felt.

"Davey!" Jack shouted accusingly, "What the heck didja do?"

"I didn't do anything!" David protested, still staring at Spot with saucer-eyes and a dangling jaw.

"Well that thing-" Jack pointed somewhat dramatically at the – the _thing_ in David's grasp, "-did!"

'That thing' was a lopsided metal box, with several odd wires and twig-like antennae things sticking up from all angles, and a blinking blue light on the top. His well-meaning but clueless friend David Jacobs had found it that morning in the dumpster – looking back, he really shouldn't have picked it up in the first place – and had brought it along with him all day selling. The other newsies had been thoroughly entranced by the object, wanting to touch it, to hold it, to press the cold metal side up against their ear and listen to the soft, soothing hum it emitted from within. Even Jack himself had found it somewhat… intriguing, and the glowing blue bulb was strangely hypnotizing.

The only person who hadn't shown any interest in the slightest was Brooklyn newsie Spot Conlon. In fact, the cold and fearless leader had made of a point of _avoiding_ David and his odd new contraption, as though it vibrated with an ominously dark aura that only he could see.

The Brooklynite had arrived a little after the morning edition to discuss with Jack and David the suspicious – and slightly hostile – advances from Queens. The three had been walking back towards the Brooklyn Bridge at the end of the day, when none other than a couple of Queens newsies had literally jumped them from the shadows. Spot was the only one quick enough to dodge, and had already knocked one of the attackers to the ground with his cane when Jack and David got back on their feet and were turning towards the other newsie. David had still been clutching the object, holding it out in front of him like a shield. The blue light, as Jack recalled, had begun blinking a bit more rapidly, and the color had darkened just a bit.

Then, the Queens newsie had taken a step forward.

A brilliant blue beam shot from one of the twiggy antennae, bounced off something in the Queens newsie's pocket, and turned to hit Spot square in the chest. And down he had gone – unhurt, unfazed, but very, very small.

The Queens newsie had fled shortly after seeing the miniaturized Brooklyn leader, leaving his unconscious friend behind with Jack, David, and Spot.

Jack looked down at their fallen attacker, then at David, and finally at the little Spot.

"Davey," he repeated, this time a little more calmly, "what happened?"

"I… I don't know," said David, finally glancing away from little Spot to read his friend's expression; "I honestly don't know."

Jack turned to look down at Spot. The boy barely made it up past his knee, his clothes overflowing from his miniature frame and his hat sliding down his face, shadowing his gleaming eyes as he watched the scene unfold before him. But Spot wasn't just smaller. No, he was something much, much worse.

He was a… he was a…

"Oh dear Lord," Jack breathed. "He's a little kid."

David muttered a word that he wouldn't even think of around his brother or sister, but Jack ignored him.

"Hey, Spot," Jack said rather sharply, causing the boy below him to jump. "You okay?"

The boy looked up, searching Jack's face before giving a small nod. Then after a brief hesitance, he spoke.

"Who're you?"

David said the word again, this time with a little more force. It took Jack a second to find his voice.

"You… don't remember me?"

Spot shook his head. "Should I?"

"Of course you should!" Jack couldn't help but raise his voice. "It's me, Jacky boy – Jack be Nimble, Jack be Quick! I'm Cowboy, y'know?"

Spot's brows furrowed and he shook his head again.

"Spot," David said, now looking calmer and more composed, "what was your last memory?"

Spot looked down. "I was… I was walkin' home," he said with uncharacteristic quietness, "from school. I had to stay after and clean the board, so I was walkin' by myself. Then some big kids came up and…" he paused, looking up at Jack with big blue eyes, "and that's it." He finished.

Jack and David exchanged a worried glance over the boy's head. _What now?_ David's expression seemed to read. Jack just gave his head a small shake.

A sudden groan came from the Queens newsie, whom the Manhattaners had completely forgotten about in their shock. The boy propped himself up on one elbow, using his free hand to rub his head.

"Stripes?" he muttered tiredly, squinting, "you there? Stripes?"

Jack doubled back with alarm, before reaching out and grabbing Spot by the arm. Spot's gaze whipped from one newsie to the other, eyes bright with panic and confusion.

"What's going on?" he asked sharply, in such a familiar way that Jack almost stopped his next action.

"Nothing," he said briskly, "we just gotta get outta here _now_." And then he tossed Spot over his shoulder and began to run like his feet were on fire.

Jack was faintly aware of David's rushed footsteps trailing behind them, and little Spot's uneven protests. But all he could think about was getting back to the lodging house as quickly as possible. _We can't let Queens know about this. It's too risky._

And suddenly the lodging house door was in front of him, and he stormed in, all heads turning abruptly in his direction.

"Geez, what took you guys so long?" asked Racetrack in an exasperated voice.

"Sorry," Jack's apology was vague as he set Spot down on the nearest tabletop, "we got delayed."

A sudden hush fell over the room, all actions halted in place and all eyes trained on Jack and his tiny companion.

"That better not be who I think it is," said Specs. Jack just let out a sigh and shot the newsie a half-hearted glare.

"Cowboy," Kid Blink peered out from behind his eye patch, "what happened?"

"Long story," mumbled Jack. Several newsies leaned in; an obvious sign that they expected all the gritty details. Jack let out another puff of breath.

"Listen, we just got jumped by some punks from Queens, alright? Then Davey's stupid metal box went berserk and he ended up like this. End of story."

There was a pregnant silence that followed his words.

"Is he okay?" There went Mush, always concerned about everyone's safety and well-being. Then, for the first time since they'd entered the lodging house, Jack took a minute to actually focus on Spot.

The poor boy looked absolutely petrified. His eyes were wide, filled with terror and confusion, and his breath was rapid and shallow as he clutched the edge of the table for all it was worth.

"Spot?" Jack asked, genuine concern lacing his tone, "what's the matter?"

He didn't reply at first, and for a moment Jack wondered if his ability to speak had hit the road along with his memories. But then his gaze slowly turned towards the older boy, and he gulped rather loudly.

"Where… where am I?" he asked in the tiniest, most meek voice Jack had ever heard Spot use. The entire congregation seemed shocked and slightly embarrassed, as though someone's pants had just fallen down. Jack cleared his throat awkwardly.

"This is Manhattan, New York," he explained in a somewhat formal tone, "and we are currently located in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House."

Spot scanned his gaze across the crowd of boys, faces smudged with dirt, hands stained with ink, and cabby caps turned sideways. He bit his lip.

"Are you all… newsies?" he asked tentatively.

"Duh," Snipeshooter called from the throng. Kid Blink, who was standing next to him, frowned and promptly boxed the redhead's ears.

"He doesn't remember anything," said Jack, like it wasn't already obvious.

Spot looked down and absent-mindedly snapped one of his suspender straps. The sound echoed throughout the room. All the Manhattan newsies exchanged glances, and everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing.

_Okay then. What now?_

A sharp rap on the door broke the silence, followed by another, and then another. Jack shifted, staring at the door intensely. _Queens?_ He wondered, but then mentally shook his head. If it were Queens, chances are they wouldn't bother to knock – they preferred barging.

Another set of knocks brought Jack back to Earth, but this time it sounded more like banging and he figured he'd better answer it. The newsies parted to let him through, and, with slight hesitation as he grasped the knob, Jack opened the door a crack and peeked through. The sight before him made him wish it were Queens.

There, on the Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House steps, stood the Brooklyn second in command. And he did not look happy.

"Oh, hello Harvey," he said as smoothly as possible, shooting a panicked glance over his shoulder. He briefly saw Specs and Kid Blink bundle young Spot up the stairs towards the bunking room, before he turned back to face the stony second.

"Cowboy," came Harvey's curt reply. Harvey was a lean boy, with plenty of muscle and just a few inches shorter than Jack himself. His dark brown hair fell into his face as he tried to see over Jack's shoulder and into the lobby. The Manhattaner shot another quick glance behind him to ensure that Spot was safely tucked away and out of sight, before opening the door a bit wider. Harvey's attention turned back to Jack with a displeased frown.

"My boys found this on your side of the Brooklyn Bridge," he rumbled, pulling Spot's cane out from behind his back. Jack did his best not to look surprised or nervous.

"Oh, so that's where he left it, huh?" he gave a short laugh, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. "Well, thanks for returning it." He reached out to take the cane from Harvey, but the Brooklynite pulled away sharply.

"Spot was supposed to return fifteen minutes ago," he informed Jack coldly. Jack decided to look mildly annoyed.

"What, your leader need a bedtime?" he snapped, trying his best not to think that now, he would. Harvey regarded the display with cool indifference.

"Is he here?" he asked evenly. Jack let out yet another sigh.

"Yeah, he is," he replied, waving it off like it was no big deal. "He's sleepin' right now. Said he wants to spend a bit of time here. You know, to plan against Queens and all."

Now Harvey looked suspicious. "Tell him I'm here," he commanded.

"Can't," said Jack without missing a beat. "He's awfully tired."

The second's eyes glinted dangerously, and next thing Jack knew, he had been wrenched out into the night and slammed against the wall, Harvey's intense, piercing eyes inches from his own.

"Now listen here, 'Hattaner," he growled, his voice low and threatening, "I don't know what the heck's going on, but I don't like it. And if anything's happened to Spot, you'll have the Devil's tail to pay for it."

Jack caught his breath and stood up a little straighter, Harvey's cold eyes still boring into his skull.

"Just let him stay for a bit, okay?" Jack reached up and placed a gentle grip around Harvey's wrist, carefully pulling it off of his neck and guiding it back to the Brooklynite's side. "It's really important Harvey. You've got to trust me."

Harvey's dark eyes continued to stare, as though he were searching for any sign of deception. Finally, with a dignified tilt of his chin, he handed Jack the cane.

"Seven days, Cowboy," he warned, slowly backing away into the shadows. "You've got seven days."

And then he was gone.

Jack stood out on the steps for a moment longer, staring off into the darkness of the night, before inhaling deeply and reentering the lodging house. The other newsies turned as he pushed through the door, looking concerned.

"Is he gone?" Boots asked, peering around Jack as though he expected Harvey to leap out any second. Jack gave a weary nod.

"Yeah," he said, then straightened up slightly and squared his shoulders. "Alright men, we've got seven days to figure out a plan. Just in case any of you went temporarily deaf for the past few minutes, allow me to run you over the basics.

"One: we are currently being harassed by the borough Queens. Two: Spot has been turned into a little kid. Three: We have a seven day time limit. Any questions?"

David, who Jack had just noticed for the first time since arriving at the lodging house, raised his hand. Jack gave him a nod as permission to speak.

"Um, what should we do about this?" he held out the metal box, a worried look shadowing his face. All the newsies surrounding him took a subtle step back, eyeing the object warily.

"Maybe we should get rid of it," said Racetrack, and a murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

"But how?" asked Bumlets, his thick hair swishing as he shook his head from side to side.

"It needs to be dealt with carefully," insisted Mush, a thoughtful look on his face.

"I have a hammer," Jake offered, holding the tool high in the air.

"Wait," a voice rose above the rest, and Jack turned to see Specs coming down the stairs with a stern look on his face, "don't be rash."

The other newsies stared at him blankly. Specs sighed and pushed his specs up the bridge of his nose, his lenses catching in the light.

"Think about it, everyone. This strange device is the only thing, to our knowledge, that can change a young man back into such a child-like state. If we destroy it, we destroy any hope of returning Spot to his original form."

Reluctant mumbles of 'he has a good point' circled around the lobby. But Jack wasn't convinced.

"I've _seen_ what that thing can do, Specs," he protested with a frown. "It's not safe. Where is Spot, anyways?"

Specs waved his hand in the general direction of the stairs. "Fast asleep. We set him on the bed and he just sort of crashed. Blink's watching him now."

Jack gave a cautious nod, satisfied with the report, and then returned to the previous topic.

"Back to Davey's metal box thing," he glanced over at his friend, who was clutching the object nervously, and then back at Specs, "what do you say we do?"

Specs narrowed his eyes, inspecting the object from across the room, before finally replying. "I would suggest reverse engineering."

"Reverse engiwhat?" blanched Race. Specs looked at the shorter newsie with reserved disdain.

"Reverse engineering," he repeated slowly, as though speaking to a five-year-old, "is the act of taking an object apart to figure what it does and how it works. If we do this successfully, chances are we would be able to rebuild it to counteract whatever it did to Spot, thus returning him to his normal self."

Race crossed his arms and shifted self-consciously; "Right. I knew that."

"But can you get it done in seven days?" asked Mush, his tone less skeptical than worried.

"Mush is right," David agreed, shooting a quick look at Jack before continuing; "We need Brooklyn's alliance if we expect to fix this problem with Queens. We can't afford to agitate them now."

Jack nodded, pleased with his second's logic. "Well, Specs?" he turned back to the sun-bleached blonde, "can you do it?"

Specs blinked. "Of course I could, eventually. But I would only be able to work on it between selling hours, and in the evenings before bed. The delay would require three weeks, tops."

Jack groaned and ran a hand through his hair, silently noting that he could do with a shower. "Any other ideas?" he looked out at the other Manhattan newsies, feeling just as dismal as he sounded.

"Wait," said David, and now all eyes were on him. "I could work on it at my house. I mean, my dad needs the money I make as a newsie, but…"

"I wouldn't mind giving you some of my selling money," offered Mush helpfully, "if it means Spot will be returned to normal."

"Yeah, me neither," Itey grinned.

"You can borrow my hammer!" declared Jake with unbridled enthusiasm. David's cheeks flushed red from the sudden burst of loyalty, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.

"Well, I… I…" he took in a breath and gave a small smile. "Thanks, guys. I'll do my best."

"And I'll offer my assistance, when I get the chance." Specs promised with a pleased nod.

Jack grinned, his hope steadily returning. "Alright men, that's the plan!" he shouted earnestly, his eyes sparkling with excitement, "we'll all pitch in to help Davey's family, and that'll give him the time to reverse engiwhatever the box. It'll be done in no time!"

Mush still looked concerned. "What about Spot?" he questioned. "Until the metal box is fixed, he's still stuck as a child."

"And he doesn't seem to remember his life as a newsie," added Crutchy, his mousy face looking quite forlorn.

"Well, that's a fine mess," grumbled Skittery. "Who wants to clean it up?"

"We're already working on that," Jack assured him, refusing to be tainted by the newsie's eternally 'glum and dumb' mood. "Now, I propose that we all take turns watching him. I mean, he can't go off selling by himself. Specs, did he ever tell you his actual age?"

Specs put a finger on his chin thoughtfully. "I believe he did mention being five years old," he assented. Jack felt a niggling of worry deep in the pit of his stomach. Five was young; very, very young. The youngest newsie in Manhattan was David's little brother Les, who, at ten, still sold with a trusted partner. And Spot had shown a great fear towards the other newsies. Would he be able to handle a life on the streets? Jack could only hope that the initial terror would subside. Perhaps all the boy needed was a nice nap.

_If that's the case,_ Jack thought with a hint of skepticism, _then I guess we're on the right track._

"So," David's voice interrupted Jack's internal fretting, "You're saying that we work in shifts, right?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah, that's right. We'll each take turns watching him for the day. I'll start tomorrow, since he'll need to be reintroduced and shown around. Bumlets, you can take him after that, and…" the leader scanned the mass of heads, wondering who to pick next.

"I'll take him on the third day," Race offered. Jack gave a nod.

"Okay Race, you're next. And then… Kid Blink can do day four, and Skittery, you mind taking day five?"

The newsie grumbled a barely-audible agreement and looked away.

"Great. Then, Mush on day six, and Crutchy can finish it off on day seven. After that, he'll hopefully be back to his normal self and skipping across the Bridge."

This resulted in a small chuckle from the group, cut off by a series of simultaneous yawns. Jack smirked at the boys and shook his head.

"Well, that about sums it up for tonight," he told them. "I guess it's time for bed now. We've got a big week ahead of us, so rest up good."

The Manhattan newsies tromped up the stairs, laughing and joking loudly, until they reached the top, where a sudden hush fell over them like a blanket.

Spot lay across one of the lower bunks, his head rested on a pillow and lolling to one side. Someone – probably Blink, Jack assumed – had removed his cabby cap and suspenders. His oversized pants had also been removed, all three articles of clothing tossed into a pile at the foot of the bed. This was hardly a problem, however, as his now colossal-looking shirt stopped just above his knees, and the floppy sleeves overlapped his fingertips by a good several inches. One arm was draped over his stomach, while the other was laid on the pillow, fingers curled above his head.

It took a full three minutes for the Manhattan newsies to take in and process the sight.

Finally, Kid Blink – who had been sitting at the end of the bed, slouching against the wall as he flipped his eye patch up and down absent-mindedly – looked over at his bunkmates, and raised a single eyebrow.

"You guys need something?" he asked, clearly uninterested. Jack, at that moment representing everyone, silently shook his head.

"Nah," he said faintly, eyes still trained on the boy. "We're good."

Blink returned his eye patch to its original position and sat up. "Then what is it?"

"Nothing," Dutchy assured him breezily.

"It's just that," Mush tilted his head slightly, his voice oddly hesitant. "He looks so very… so incredibly…"

"Cute," Racetrack finished bluntly. "He looks freaking adorable."

Boots rounded on Race, eyes wide and mouth open. "You do know who you just called cute, right?" he asked incredulously.

Race glared at the younger boy. "Of course I do," he snapped. "I only said it 'cause it's true."

"Alright guys, calm down," Jack called before a fight could break out. "Let's try to keep our voices down, okay? We don't want to wake him."

Every single newsie instantly shut up, lips pressed tightly together, as though a solitary breath would stir the tiny boy from his slumber. Then, very quietly, they each tiptoed off to his assigned bunk, sinking into the mattresses as quietly as possible. Pie Eater stepped on a squeaky board and everyone shot him a venomous glare. The poor boy ducked his head in embarrassment and crawled into his bed without a word. For a while, everything was silent, save a few faint snores and shifting bodies. Then, a single whisper rose up from the darkness of the room.

"Say, Jack?" Tumbler's voice sounded strangely masculine, after hearing five-year-old Spot speak. Jack rolled over to face the general direction of the younger boy's bunk.

"Keep your voice down, Tumbler," he whispered. "What's up?"

There was a brief pause, and Jack wondered if the boy had already fallen asleep. But then he spoke.

"What about Queens?" he asked, his voice fainter than before. "What're we gonna do about them?"

Jack let out a sigh and sat up, mulling it over in his head. "Don't worry about it, Tumbler," he said at last. "They'll probably leave kids like you alone."

"You think so?" Tumbler asked, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah. And besides," Jack added, falling back onto his pillow and closing his eyes; "I think we should be more worried about steering clear of Brooklyn. 'Cause if they find out what happened to Spot, we're as good as dead."

And with that, Jack Kelly fell asleep.

**!~!~!**

Pipeline sat behind his desk, the room completely dark, save a sliver a moonlight which fed its way through the drawn curtains of the window. The desk had been there when he and his boys had first turned the abandoned storage building into their lodging house, and it had become quite useful. Besides serving as a good place to store things and organize meetings, sitting behind it like a hoity-toity made him look – and feel – official. Like he was important to the world, not just some wayward soul eating stolen food and drinking from the gutter.

"Pipe," a voice called, tentatively from behind the door. Pipeline tilted his head, a smirk donning his features.

"Come in, Stripes," he said, leaning back in his chair. Stripes entered the room, glancing around somewhat nervously in the dimness.

"C'mere," Pipeline sat up, leaning forward. Stripes hesitated, before slowly, carefully stepping over to the desk.

"Here," Pipeline said quietly, reaching up and grabbing the newsie's cabby cap. "Take this off."

The newsie leader wrenched the hat away, revealing dark chocolate hair pulled back in a neatly-made bun. Stripes blinked, then looked down at her feet. Realizing that he would have to make all the first moves, Pipeline grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her onto his lap. Stripes sat, rigid and nervous, as the young man began to remove the pins from her hair.

"Let it loose, Stripes," he said quietly, setting the pins carefully on the desk. A single curl tumbled down, bouncing off the girl's shoulder and settling itself on her back. Then Stripes continued to speak, and Pipeline continued to pull the pins.

"We ambushed the Manhattaners as you requested," she said quietly.

"Good girl," smirked Pipeline, curling a lock of hair around his finger as he set the last pin aside. "How'd it go?"

"Alright," she replied after a brief hesitance. "Tease was knocked unconscious and has not yet returned."

Pipeline bounced the curls in his hands. "That's no good," he mused. "You'd better go find him later. It's impolite to leave members of your attack party behind."

"Yes, sir," said Stripes.

There was a moment of silence, before Pipeline prompted the girl to continue. She tilted her head from side to side, a little habit she had when deep in thought.

"Spot was with them." She said at last. Pipeline let the curls slide from his grasp.

"Is that so," he murmured, more to himself than Stripes, but she nodded nonetheless.

"Something… strange happened to him," the girl shifted slightly in her leader's lap. Pipeline looked up from his temporary daze and raised an eyebrow.

"Something strange?" he echoed. Stripes nodded again. "Is he dead?"

"No," answered Stripes in her usual soft, mild tone. "But the 'Hattaners seemed just as surprised as I was. Maybe even more."

"Really?" Pipeline purred, pulling her closer to himself. "Sounds interesting. Do continue."

**!~!~!**

**And thus ends the first chapter of A Speck of Spot. I hope you guys liked it. The next few chapters will contain more kid!Spot cuteness and less Queens meanness, so that should be something to look forward to, I guess. :3**

**Poor, poor Queens. They always end up being the bad guys. *sigh* And my OCs won't really play a huge role in the story, but I went ahead and gave them names since they do require that much. They'll mostly just be the antagonists, though, and nothing else. Go them. Oh, and no romance either. I know it looks like it at the end there, but seriously, my pathetic OCs are not the focus of the story. They're just kinda… there. Y'know, doing their thing. Whatever.**

**Well, that's about it for now. I hope you guys liked it, and please review! It inspires me to write faster. ;)**

**Lot's of love,**

**~ Christina Conlon**


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